The Blood Gospel

Erin shifted away from Jordan, putting Bathory between her and the wolf, calculating angles. She held the pistol steady in front of her with both hands, lined up the sights, and took a deep breath.

On the exhale, her left index finger squeezed the trigger.

The shot blasted loudly.

Bathory lurched forward, and the grimwolf howled in agony.

Jordan turned in surprise, but Erin kept her eyes on Bathory and lined up a second shot.

The grimwolf hurled its body away from Rhun and ran in a circle, snapping at its shoulder. The bullet had passed through Bathory’s body before it struck the wolf, carrying her blood with it. The wolf’s coat rippled, smoke boiling out from the bullet wound.

Bathory’s blood was toxic to the strigoi—and the blasphemare created by them.

Bathory swung around to face Jordan and Erin. Blood seeped through her shirt, low, above her right hip. Her eyes fastened on her enemies. Her lip raised in a sneer. She lifted her gun toward them.

Holding steady, Erin squeezed the trigger three more times.

The cluster of shots struck Bathory through the chest—and from there into the grimwolf’s flank.

Bathory fell backward, stumbling against the wall, crimson spreading across her chest. She slid to the floor, her silver eyes wide with surprise. Her gun clattered to the floor next to her limp arm.

The grimwolf collapsed with a mighty shudder. Blood smoked from its body and frothed from its mouth. Unable to stand now, it dragged itself on its belly, whimpering. A dark smear of blood trailed behind it.

The wolf reached Bathory and dropped its head into her lap. She lifted her arms and wrapped them around its head.

Beyond them, Rhun struggled to his feet and retrieved Bathory’s gun.

Straightening, he turned in Erin’s direction. When he saw her, his lips moved into a shadow of a tired smile, relieved to see her—and maybe something more. Either way, it was the first genuine and honest smile she had ever seen him give.

He looked young, vulnerable, and very human.

She stumbled toward him, but Jordan pulled her back. “That’s close enough.”

His gun was out and pointed at Rhun.

That smile fled Rhun’s face.

And the world was darker for it.

62

October 28, 6:54 P.M., CET

Necropolis below St. Peter’s Basilica, Italy

Magor …

Bathory cradled the wolf’s huge head in her lap. She felt his agony, heard his moan, poisoned by her blood. More silvery crimson flowed down her chest, pooling on her lap where he lay, boiling his skin, burning him in agony.

Please go … don’t die like this …

She tried to push him away, but he nuzzled closer into that pain so he could be with her.

Too weak to fight him, she leaned over as he rolled one eye up at her. She sang him a final lullaby. It had no words. She had no breath to form them. Her song came from somewhere deeper than language, where summer suns still shone on a little boy catching butterflies in a white net among tall green grasses. Her song was laughter and love and the simple warmth of one body holding another.

The world darkened at the edges, until it was reduced to just that pained eye staring lovingly up at her. She watched that crimson glow within it fade, becoming only a soft gold as the curse inside him faded, and Magor became, again, just wolf … leaving all the grimness behind.

The pain also faded from his great, loving bulk as she sagged over him.

The pain fled her blood, too, leaving only peace.

As darkness consumed them both, she willed one last message to her friend.

Let’s go find Hunor …

63

October 28, 6:57 P.M., CET

Necropolis below St. Peter’s Basilica, Italy

Rhun knelt before the ghost of Elisabeta.

He held the Gospel in his lap and prayed for her soul. How soft and young her face looked in death, the fire of hatred snuffed out, leaving a purity and innocence that had been corrupted in part by his act centuries ago.

He stared at the paleness of her long throat.

A black mark had once marred its beauty, a strangling imprint from some unknown hand. Rasputin’s words in the Hermitage came back to him, words about one woman from every generation of the Bathory line who was sentenced to a lifetime of pain and servitude.

Going back to the time of his defilement of Elisabeta.

But who could do such a thing? The Belial? If so, what interest was Elisabeta’s line to them; surely it could not just be to torture him? What was he not seeing here? Why prey upon the descendants of Elisabeta Bathory?

To what end?

Now, with this woman dead, he realized that he might never know the answers to these questions, that perhaps the chain had finally been broken.

As he stood, his prayers done, he stared down at the humble book that he’d taken from her.